


Dialogs and Monologues

by allthenobodyppl



Category: David Bowie (Musician), The Hunger (TV 1997)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Blood, Non-Graphic Violence, Sexual Content, Threats, Threats of Violence, implied sexual violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthenobodyppl/pseuds/allthenobodyppl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An original collection of Julian Priest's monologues and conversations - fanwritten monologues not from the TV series. Each chapter is a stand-alone oneshot or ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like Warm Butter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally beta'd by HachimansKitsune when I first uploaded this on fanfiction.net

"The most important element about surgical tools is, of course, that it must be sterile," Julian Priest says as he is scrubbing his hands clean. His arms are covered in white foam from elbow to fingertips. He brings his hands under running water, which drowns out this faint sound of metal clanking.

Priest turns off the faucet and dries his hands with a big wad of paper towel; then he snaps on a pair of gloves. "Needless to say, if it isn't sterile, chances of infection are inevitable. In severe cases, gangrene can develop and the source of the infection will need to be amputated."

The sound of metal shaking gets louder and a high keening whine is heard. Julian walks towards an instrument table and rearranges the shiny tools on top of a small tray. He glances at a woman handcuffed to a steel operating table. She is completely naked, her skin is soaked in cold sweat and her wrists are raw trying to pull her hands free. Her ankles are also caked in dried blood where they are cuffed the table; the skin is cracked open against the shackles. Angry red fissures are wrapped around her limbs near the restraints, still slowly oozing fluids. Her mouth is stuffed with a ball gag, quieting her cries.

"Are you paying attention?" Priest asks her.

She replies by thrashing against her bonds.

"Good." He picks up a scalpel and holds it to the light. "The second most important element about surgical tools is that they need to be _very_ sharp."

He walks over to the girl and holds the scalpel to her eyes. "See this?"

She shrinks away from him and whimpers as she blinks her tears away.

"This can cut flesh like it's warm butter." He tilts the instrument and it catches the light; it's like it almost winks at the poor girl, mocking her fate. He lowers the blade to her groin and runs the flat, dull end against the crux of where her folds begin.

He grins. "Would you like me to demonstrate?"


	2. Witch Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally beta'd by HachimansKitsune when I first uploaded this on fanfiction.net

Julian Priest places a newspaper on top of a million other sheets of paper sitting on a rusty table. The headlines read "Public outcry against Priest." Other papers scattered about are splashed with words like "insanity," "sickening," "offensive," "disgusting," and "revolting." The sound of incoherent angry shouting is heard coming from outside of the penitentiary walls, the place where Priest has been residing for the past decade.

"All you need to do is plant one little seed," he chuckles. "Say something that can very well be meaningless, but it will take root in someone's mind. It will fester and grow until it starts to branch out; mature, forming seeds of their own. Soon those seeds will disperse into others, and that notion will be planted in their heads to develop."

Priest stands and begins pacing. "An insignificant-" He places a hand against the papers on the table. "Rotting-" He draws his hand across the documents as he walks back and forth against the length of the table. "Diseased-" He gives the papers one big shove and the pile scatters onto the floor. "Little shrub spreading in all directions until it is no longer a sapling, but a mounting tree."

A magazine half hanging off the table slips off, falling opened. A quote in big block letters reads, "A retrospective so amoral, so violent; so full of hate should never exist let alone be presented to the public eye." A smaller quote off to the side says, "Reminiscent of a serial killer's journal."

Priest sneers as he glances at the magazine; he continues, "And when a forest of these trees covers the land…" He walks towards the fenced window, his feet crunching against the fallen articles.

When his form nears the window, a glass bottle is shattered across the metal grating and the previous angry shouting hits a crescendo.

"The witch hunt begins." Priest watches dispassionately as someone douses his car with gasoline from a red fuel can. He turns away just as the same person lights his car on fire and the mob surrounding his penitentiary cheers.


	3. Pedestal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally beta'd by HachimansKitsune when I first uploaded this on fanfiction.net

Julian Priest is putting on a blue surgeon's gown and knots the accompanying belt by his hip. "We put what we admire on a pedestal," he announces. "It's normal to see what we want to see when we are infatuated with something unobtainable. Because of such inaccessibility, it is that much more amazing; the further away it is, the more transcendent it becomes. Since we put what we adore in such high regard, that which is worshiped will have very large shoes to fill."

He snaps on a pair of latex gloves as he walks towards an instrument table. The table is neatly lined with a varying array of surgical tools. "Sometimes, if we are ever so bold, we will pursue what we idolize. We may fight to get at it, push others out of our way; step on anyone we can to get us there. When what we desire is within reach, we may lavish all adulation upon it, spewing flattery and tears and proclamations of love to possess it."

Priest places a small steel tray in front of him and begins picking up tools and inspecting them. "The most likely outcome is that which we wish to acquire remains conveniently out of range." He places a scalpel onto the tray. "However, if we are lucky, we may just get what we've been longing for...and be disappointed." He picks up a pair of forceps, pauses, and puts it back, deciding against it. "Oftentimes our beliefs are extinguished when what we admire is not how we envisioned it." He places a few sponges onto the tray and a pair of scissors.

"And what then?" He picks up a manual bone saw, lips twitching into a small smile of approval, and sets it onto the tray.

"What will you do?" He adds a few bulldog clamps into his collection for good measure.

"You have the very object of your affections within your grasp, and yet…you no longer want it." Priest scoffs, "It doesn't really matter anymore whether or not you want it, you are stuck with it, so what will you do?"

"Now, some people would try to bend said object until it resembles what they seek." He picks up the tray and begins walking. "Others may solider on and take responsibility, coldly react to it and put on the guise of accepting it as they silently judge and wish for a different outcome. Most people would run away."

He places the tray onto an instrument stand and directs his gaze to a girl planted onto a hydraulic chair like a rag doll. "Kind of like what you tried to do."

Priest reaches up and turns on an examination light, bathing the girl in brightness. She only manages to blink at its intensity. He leans over until he is eye level with the girl. "I'm not everything you hope me to be, am I?"

The girl sobs through the duct tape over her mouth. Sweat rolls down her neck and down the cleavage of her exposed breasts. The only piece of clothing she wears is a pair of dirty socks. There are dark trails of mascara running down her cheeks and her eyes are bloodshot. She isn't tied down, it seems like she is unable to move.

"No," Priest says, shaking his head patronizingly as if he is answering his question for the girl. He straightens. "That's too bad; you're stuck with me. Don't worry, it won't be forever just–" He checks the IV tube connected into her arm and then looks at the clock on the wall. "A few more hours."


End file.
